


An Amber Christmas

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Irene Ships It, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is Moran, post-HLV, scotch whiskey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2839493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wanted to taste the sharpness of the alcohol the moment John did. It'd be the closest he'd get to tasting John's mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Amber Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LennyFace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LennyFace/gifts).



> For Désirée - A Christmas gift where she wanted Mary as Moran, Irene pushing them together, and a first kiss. 
> 
> ...other than that, I gave it a little crimsonwinter flair :)
> 
> Happy Christmas, love! 
> 
> also pissy john is pissy <3

Breathless, John followed the billowing charcoal coat through the familiar doorway. His cheeks were tight from the winter chill, and his hands were restless, but the spark in his heart that would have been there four years ago, when he and his flatmate were new and smarmy, had turned into a dull ache. Despite this, the hallway of 221B felt like it used to, and no matter how many times the doctor came back to it, the two years he spent away seemed like two years too many. In fact, the tall stairway and small foyer comforted and reminded John more of home than the house he grew up in.

Stopping for a moment as Sherlock muttered something intelligent, John let himself pretend that everything was the same. He pretended that the case they'd just solved was one of their first, that everything was still new and timid, and that he hadn't seen Sherlock die.

Hearing his own name snapped him out of his thoughts, however, and he found himself looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. Like everything else, the sharp newness in Sherlock's angular face had faded into comfortable familiarity, and age and torture had worn him out. He was still just as beautiful as he was that first night, of course, but now he was more twisted and confusing. John couldn't tell if his eyes shone brilliantly because he was excited or because they were laughing at him. He didn't know if Sherlock had missed him those two years, or even where he'd been.

For the moment, fortunately, it didn't matter. John darted his eyes away and decided to try and thrust himself back into normalcy. He was here with Sherlock, it was Christmas, and now, after four months of living in the flat once again, his clothes and belongings had finally adapted its smell. 

"Wasn't that magnificent?" Sherlock said now as he galloped up the stairs.

John nodded solemnly but realized he'd have to answer verbally. "Who'd have thought it was the cat breeder? No, wait, don't answer that. You. You'd have thought that."

Sherlock stopped at the top of the stairs and turned towards John with a smirk. It almost felt forced. John tried not to think about it.

"Boys!" Startling them with her high voice, Mrs. Hudson waddled through the flat and appeared in front of them in a God-awful Christmas jumper. She was grinning warmly as John's eyes slid past her and into the living room.

It was decorated in gaudy paper and various shades of red, green, and gold. There was a peppermint centerpiece on the kitchen table where Sherlock's chemistry set ought to be, and Billy the skull was wearing a Santa hat. John mentally snarled as Mrs. Hudson began rattling off a story of her last Christmas with her late husband. John ignored her, and instead walked past her and into the flat. He moved through the space, eyes flicking from one snowflake paper chain to the next. He sunk into his chair and craned his neck back to meet eyes with Sherlock, who looked just as eager to leave the conversation.

Prodding at one of the bells on the quilt that was draped over his chair, John felt a strange surge of spite boil in his belly. Well, not strange considering all that had happened to him in the past year or so, but strange nonetheless. There was nothing that Mrs. Hudson's decorations were meaning to inspire besides holiday spirit, and yet John felt himself sneer at it. Internally cursing, John cleared his throat. He didn't hate Christmas. Quite the contrary, he had enjoyed it every year as a kid. Even when Harriet was drunk off her arse and ruining dinner in his early thirties, John still felt the holiday magic. No matter if he was at a girlfriend's house or his parents', he'd wear his red and white jumper and pour himself multiple glasses of eggnog while listening to the same blasted album on repeat. Even in Afghanistan, huddled in a tent with his mates and Sholto, warm beer in hand and bad army tales on their tongues, Christmas was better than this.

Sherlock waved Mrs. Hudson off and tugged at his gloves as he moved to the kitchen. "Last case for a bit," he said, his low, grumbling voice filling the flat.

"Oh?"

"Don't sound so belittled, John. We need a break."

John knew that was true, but he felt like contradicting Sherlock anyway. "No, we don't. _I'm_ fine."

Sherlock turned towards him, the wide flare of his coat twirling. "Aren't you? Last I recall, you were just complaining about having to 'follow me around' all the time. I gave you the option to stay here, but you declined."

Unable to retort and too grumpy to care, John stood abruptly and stomped towards his room. He was well aware that he'd been touchy and rude for a long while, but he had every reason to. Turning the corner to climb the stairs up to his room, he was tempted to rip down a smiling snowman wall sticker.

* * *

After Sherlock had removed his coat and set it carefully back on the hook, he rolled his shoulders and prepared how he'd speak to John when he came down.

He did that quite often, actually. Ever since the wedding, he'd been choosing his words carefully and hoping they didn't cause John to storm off. Especially after he'd almost gotten on a plane meant to send him to his death. John, after that, had adopted quite a grumpy nature. He'd been betrayed and lied to numerous times, so it was only fair, but his personality worsened after it was revealed that who they'd known as John's wife was really Moriarty's right-hand-man, Lord Moran. Sherlock and John worked side-by-side to take her down and hand her off to Mycroft for punishment, but it took them a while after that to get anywhere close to normalcy.

Sherlock stayed silent all through the divorce and John's unprompted transition back into 221B, but now he desperately wanted things to be better. If not better, then at least the same as they had been.

He scraped a bit of dried milk off the kitchen table and sighed. He knew that wouldn't be possible. He knew that if there was ever any chance of things being alright between them, it'd have to have been years ago. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock had only discovered how painfully in love with John he was at John and Mary's wedding, and by that point, it was too late.

Waiting for John to return, Sherlock stood from the table and fetched John's hidden stash of scotch whiskey. He set up the bottle and two glasses on a platter and brought them into the living room. He'd have gone with wine, but he knew John needed something stronger tonight. The last Christmas they'd had together had been the night he'd shot Charles Augustus Magnussen, and before that, Sherlock had been dead.

The detective knew that tonight wasn't going to be easy for either of them, especially with Sherlock knowing that Mrs. Hudson had set out the decorations and mistletoe in hopes of edging them on. Good old Mrs. Hudson, still trying to press them together. He didn't blame her, really. He was trying just as desperately.

John appeared at the foot of the stairs in his pajamas and robe as Sherlock was just cranking up the fire. The comfortable living room filled with heat and a soft orange glow flickered off the misty windows. As he stood and faced John, Sherlock straightened out his shirt and gestured awkwardly towards the drinks between their chairs. Flashes of the stag night for John's wedding flooded his mind, but he shooed them away. He didn't need another hopeless opportunity like that, he needed closure. 

But before closure could come, he had to know that John would be okay. And John was always more okay with a little bit of alcohol in his system. 

"What's this?" He asked.

"Just a bit of… erm, merriment." Sherlock smiled tenderly. He was on edge now as well. He was sure John could see right through him that day on the tarmac, looking deep down into his little broken heart. Well, a heart that had surged in and out of feelings for years and had finally broken when he realized John would only love Mary… When it'd realized there wasn't a place for him anymore. Despite that, Sherlock had known, oh, he'd known, that John was special. That now, as he timidly came over and took his throne, his nervous eyes and eager mouth were more beautiful than anything Sherlock could ever find elsewhere. That every instance they'd had together, he'd fallen a little bit harder, loved him a little more fiercely, until the wedding shocked him into realization.

Sherlock joined John and motioned for him to pour first.

"You don't have to do this," John said. "I'm not even thinking about last Christmas." He pulled a wide glass towards himself and and dipped the head of the bottle into it, amber alcohol filling it smoothly.

"I didn't think you were."

"It's just that, since all this Mary - "

"A.G.R.A.," Sherlock interrupted. He couldn't help but mention her betrayal now and again, though he had to hide his satisfaction that she was gone. He knew the memory hurt John, and that was the last thing he wanted to do, but he could tell that he was just a bit relieved that she was under the watchful eyes of the British government. 

"Thanks for the reminder." John sipped his scotch. Sherlock watched as his handsome face bared his teeth and he hissed. "Yeah. I needed this."

Sherlock looked on, fascinated. He loved how John licked his lips and bounced his knees, how he had trouble looking Sherlock in the eye when he was nervous. After all this time, it'd gotten that Sherlock could read John painstakingly well. Sometimes he deduced things he didn't believe, though, and watching John fidget now, he tried to sort through it all. "Last Christmas," Sherlock continued. He hadn't yet reached for a drink, even though John had been sipping his quickly as the time ticked on.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We should talk about it."

"Oh, we should, should we? Mr. Cold-and-Aloof wants to talk about it." 

Sherlock's gut twisted at that. While John had been snappy and relatively rude after he'd moved back in, this was over the top. Sherlock had tried many times to prove how much he cared for John. Apparently pulling him from a fire, giving him a lengthy best man's speech, and coming back from the dead twice wasn't enough. That, or John refused to believe it. "John - "

"You want to talk about it? Fine. Here's a recap. My ex-wife lied to me from the moment I met her, my daughter never existed, you shot a useless creep in the head, Moriarty came back in the form of Moran - who, I should mention, was also my wife, and now I'm worse off than I was when I returned from Afghanistan." John suppressed a snarl as he took a large mouthful of his drink. 

Not knowing what to say, Sherlock's deductions failed him and he didn't try and figure out what had ticked John off. In all fairness, it had been months since any of that was a problem. John was back in the flat, which he'd evidently missed, and A.G.R.A. wouldn't bother him anymore. What more could he want?

The fire crackled as John leaned forward to top off his glass. Sherlock waited until he capped the bottle to take a glass himself, even though he wasn't planning on getting drunk. He wanted to taste the sharpness of the alcohol the moment John did. It'd be the closest he'd get to tasting his mouth.

Putting the rim of the glass to his lips, Sherlock stared at John as he sipped his own. Bitter and biting, the drink coated Sherlock's tongue and pooled heat in his stomach. He set the glass on the edge of his chair and clasped his hands. 

He'd wanted every day since John moved back in to break through the wall and tell John how he felt, no matter if it meant things were never the same. At this point, however, things were already messed up, so Sherlock seemed to have nothing to lose. He took a breath and glanced at John. He was fingering the rim of his glass. Sherlock began, "There's something - "

A familiar and shocking noise interrupted him then: a text alert in the form of a moan. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't heard it in so long, and whenever it had before, complications and secrets followed suit. 

Pulling his phone from his pocket and checking the screen, Sherlock's assumptions were confirmed. Irene Adler, otherwise known as The Woman, had texted him. 

Unhappy and embarrassed, Sherlock set the phone down on the other arm. He took a chance and darted his eyes to John, who looked extremely irritated and just a bit dubious. His wide, navy eyes seemed to say, _Well, go on... See what she wants._

Sherlock complied and carefully swiped a finger across the screen without picking the phone up. He held his breath as he read, _Happy Christmas, detective. Long time no talk. I'm assuming you're sitting in the flat, stewing in your own misery this lovely holiday? I also assume there's mistletoe somewhere near?_

Raising his eyes and swallowing hard, he looked to John to apologize. John was interested in his near-empty glass, though, and he just tightened his mouth. Sherlock would have tried to ignore both the text and John's expression if both hadn't been sinking into him like needles. 

Before either of them could speak again, another loud moan came from the phone. _And an honorable Doctor Watson in the vicinity as well?_

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. The last thing he needed was Irene Adler teasing him about John. He mentally cursed her and looked to John across the way, who was still scowling. "Funny how we could crack the case as soon as the maine coon growled… "

"Yeah." John didn't fall for Sherlock's helpless attempt at changing the subject, and he visibly winced when another text alert sounded. He pursed his lips like he'd eaten a lemon and looked away.

The detective waited before he checked it. He scraped around the bed of his nail and took a small sip of his drink. He didn't want to seem eager, but he knew he'd have to read it. _You're smart,_ it said. _Do the math._

What did she mean by that? Was she subtly hinting at Sherlock to point out the mistletoe to John, or did she want him to kiss him under it? Sherlock pressed his lips together and contemplated the texts. Before he could figure it out, though, another came through. _Sherlock Holmes, I may be in Syria at this moment, but that doesn't mean I can't tell when you're avoiding what I'm trying to say._ A few seconds passed and then, with John royally pissed off now, _Unless, by some incredible miracle, you've understood me and are now snogging him senseless; in which case the phone has been knocked across the room in your scrambling and groping._

Sherlock wasn't even trying to hide it now, he had picked up the phone and was cradling it in his large hand, breath still and heart racing, waiting… _I'll leave you to it, then._

Irene Adler. The Woman. The woman who Sherlock despised but was fascinated by; the woman who John was irritated by and who had denied their "relationship" to. It was years ago, when that had happened, but the tone in John's voice as he spat, "We're not a couple," still rang in Sherlock's overactive head, stinging like a fresh wound. 

The detective finally breathed when it seemed Irene wasn't going to text him again. He understood clearly what she wanted him to do, and while every force in the universe was pushing Sherlock to try, he knew John wouldn't have any of it. He was irked and seemed like he could storm off again at any second. Sherlock needed to reassure him somehow, no matter what John was thinking.

"John - " he started. He said John's name often, he realized. It was like a mantra to keep him sane. …Relatively. 

"What did she have to say?"

"Nothing."

"Obviously something."

Sherlock sighed. If he was going to get anywhere close to what Irene had suggest he do, he'd have to tell the truth. "She wants me to do something." Well, half-truths. 

* * *

John struggled to remain mature, but the jealousy and aggravation that piled on top of his irritation at the holiday made him snippy. This woman, the woman that had been all over Sherlock ages ago and had potentially died, was back - of course she was, everyone in Sherlock's life came back - and texting him. She was telling him to do something, _she_ was telling _Sherlock_ what to do. He sipped the rest of his drink, nearly two glasses of scotch now rolling around in his system. "Does she still have feelings for you?"

He didn't care this time, he didn't care if it was crossing the line. There were almost no more lines to cross. John had lost everything, including Sherlock, and if that manipulative wretch tried to pry him away again…

"She doesn't anymore, if she ever did."

"She's texted you six this time, I'd say that was a good bet." He had counted them again. Of course he had. He'd counted when it was fifty-seven and he counted now. Nothing in regards to John's feelings had changed since then, even if everything around him did. He still loved Sherlock just as viciously, with the same passion and jealousy as when he'd been so close to having him. He might've been able to have him, if by some God-granted luck, Sherlock felt the same way. 

But no, he didn't. John was almost sure of it. He didn't feel things that way, especially for his divorcee best friend with a drinking problem and too much sass for one little man. 

"It's not like that," Sherlock said. He looked so sad.

"How? How is it not? Wasn't she dead? Oh, but then again, so were you. So was Moriarty."

"Moriarty is dead. It was Moran that lived on for him."

"Yes, my ex-wife, we've covered this." John lacked boundaries and was sure he'd say something stupid if he didn't get answers. "That doesn't mean that he can't still fuck up our lives from the grave."

Sherlock leaned forward, almost like he wanted to reach out. Almost. "John."

"Stop saying that and tell me what she wants."

Groaning, Sherlock leaned back. "I told you. She wants me to do something. Something I've wanted to do for a long time, but never have…"

John pulled himself up straight and rolled his eyes, "Oh not this crap - " but he was cut off. His own phone had toned. Not with a moan, but it was new and out of place. The only people he'd ever text was Sherlock and Mary and Mike, and he knew Mike was probably passed out drunk on Christmas wine at this point.

Stuffing his hand into his robe pocket, John retrieved his phone. He wondered why he'd even brought it down with him tonight. He usually left it in his room. Something told him that he'd need it though, and he wasn't mistaken.

An unrecognizable number had messaged him. John took no time in checking it, his heart drumming in his chest with the excitement that he'd be in on the secret. A few taps and clicks and then, _Has he given you your Christmas kiss yet, John?_

John's heart balked before it began to beat rapidly. He stared at the words on the screen. He read them again and again until they just looked like shapes. 

Within the first few seconds, he'd processed Irene Adler's message correctly, but the few seconds after that were full of doubt. She couldn't be serious, even if she'd assumed he and Sherlock were a couple in the past. She must know that they never were, and by the tone of the text, that John had feelings for him and has them still.

Sherlock was looking at him with a puzzled expression, bright eyes darting down to his silent phone before they flicked back to John's. Neither of them spoke. John's mind was reeling. His mouth was slightly agape as he clicked his phone and reread the message again. Though he was shocked and excited, John felt the inkling of a mystery in the midst of both their messages, and he tried to link them together. 

Irene was texting Sherlock to do something. Irene texted him if he'd done it yet. _"It"_ being a _"Christmas kiss…"_

What had Sherlock said? John was almost too angry to remember. He looked at the gorgeous detective across the way and recounted the shape of his lips when he'd said… whatever he'd said. John remembered with a start, _"Something I've wanted to do for a long time…"_

Wait…

_"…But never have."_

Oh.

John's curious eyes widened and his stomach dropped. Sherlock wanted to kiss him. Sherlock's always wanted to kiss him but never has. It wasn't some sick game, was it? Sherlock was actually being told by The Woman to kiss him? John couldn't believe it. He couldn't, Sherlock didn't… feel…

Didn't he? Memories flashed through John's mind like a rolodex of colored photos: Sherlock laughing with him, glancing down at his lips, sneakily touching him, flirting with him, protecting him, coming back for him, playing a beautiful waltz at his wedding, sacrificing his own morals to ensure that John wouldn't get flicked in the face… 

And then it hit John, it hit him square in the chest that Sherlock _did_ care. He _did_ feel things that way, and more importantly… He felt them in the way John did. Well, at least in a physical sense. And apparently he'd always felt like that, meaning the attraction went back years. The passionate, heart-breaking, romantic pining that John felt might be a bit different, but here and now, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Sherlock was sitting pretty, awkward and confused, just a few feet away, wanting to kiss him.

And God, if John wasn't going to help him out with that. 

Fingers jittery and throat tight, John put his phone down. His anger and irritation had melted away into a sort of nervous excitement, and he was high off the possibility that he'd get to kiss Sherlock tonight… for the first time. "Sherlock," he said calmly. "What was it that Irene wanted you to do?"

He must've deduced John's quick change in personality and eager teasing because suddenly he flushed and tightened his thighs. He stumbled to change the subject, "Mrs. Hudson's decorations aren't so bad…"

John leaned forward, "You said you've wanted to do it for a long time but never have." He would never get over those words: how tragic they were.

"Yes?"

The living room, which had been increasingly emitting tension since the first text, had now reached its limit. The fire crackled warmly and the scotch made John's insides burn as he slipped from his chair and clumsily onto his knees. While he wanted to remain serious and smart about it, Sherlock's wild eyes and creeping blush made John silly with impatience and he ventured into unclaimed territory as he spoke, "There's so many things I've wanted to do but never have."

Sherlock scooted back in his chair as John fumbled on the carpet in front of him. "Like what?"

"Well, I'll tell you if you tell me what The Woman said."

"I've a feeling you know already." 

Approaching Sherlock now, John steadied himself by placing both hands on either arm of Sherlock's chair. John momentarily ignored the nearness of the detective's crotch and instead focused on his eyes. He didn't want to startle Sherlock by approaching the subject so fiercely, but his handsome flatmate had given him just the right lead. "Maybe I do, but I want you to tell me anyway."

"I…" 

But John was already pressing his face up and closer to Sherlock's before he could finish his response. A near-kiss hung there as John gripped the sides of Sherlock's chair, and the warmth and taste of Sherlock's breath made John giddy and lustful. John dropped his eyes to Sherlock's damp parted lips and licked his own. Bringing his gaze back up to Sherlock's, he noted how the brilliant turquoise orbs under Sherlock's heavy lashes flicked over to the doorway. John followed, careful not to disturb the closeness. 

There, above the entrance, as John could make out from his cloudy, heated gaze, hung a bunch of holiday mistletoe. 

Sparing a few dramatic seconds as John returned his gaze to Sherlock's plump lips, he realized that he'd soon be able to make up for all he'd missed. All he'd waited for, fought for, and desired. Sherlock must've felt the same, because he tried at John's name again, just a tender J sound and a small gasp. John watched Sherlock's lips a bit longer, able to feel the flush off his cheeks and the deep breaths from his chest. Finally, John gave up on waiting and, pressing in, enclosed the remaining inches of air between their mouths.

Sherlock's lips were plump with a sweet tenderness, but it wasn't the physicality of the kiss so much as what it represented. It ensured John that all he'd felt wasn't for nothing, that the aching pains they'd both endured over the last four years had come to a blissful moment.

And how blissful it was. Sherlock responded by moving his face in closer and deepening the kiss. John let his eager fingers move from the arms of the chair to Sherlock's knees as Sherlock's large hands weaved their way around John's face and cupped his jaw. Angling his mouth down as John moved up and between his knees, John's beloved kissed him fiercely and passionately, darting his tongue into John's mouth and twisting their lips to press harder.

Head spinning and heart racing, John blessed his life as the kiss continued on for a few heavenly seconds. He flicked his own tongue against Sherlock's lips and and moved his hands up his thighs. The taste and feel of Sherlock's mouth sparked John's stomach, but it soon became a familiar necessity that John knew he couldn't live without if he were to pull back now. 

Sherlock did it for him, though, and the tender release of John's lips and feeling Sherlock linger against them for just a moment melted all of John's previous worries. With Sherlock's long fingers still caressing his face, his thumbs sweeping over John's cheeks, John looked into Sherlock's starstruck eyes and tried to speak. 

Alas, John couldn't find any words. Fortunately, the deep pools of Sherlock's eyes were just comfortable enough to assure him that the kiss wouldn't be the last, so John let his heavy lids close as he leaned softly into Sherlock's chest. Years of pining had been so exhausting, he decided, and resting on Sherlock now, knowing that everything was wonderful, was the perfect remedy.

The fire's orange flames flickered a dancing reflection on the glass surface of the amber scotch and the gaudy decorations swayed in the ghostly night breeze. Sherlock rubbed John's back with a loving hand and whispered delicately into their space, sweet and hopeful, "Happy Christmas, John."

 


End file.
